


For What It's Worth

by ToABeautifulOblivion



Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Violence, Explicit Language, F/M, Gore, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28964154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToABeautifulOblivion/pseuds/ToABeautifulOblivion
Summary: Vik runs foul of an old client turned cyberpsycho. Can V use the skills she picked up from her medic friends in Atlanta to save his life?Role-reversal fic.
Relationships: Female V & Viktor Vector
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally made some progress on one of my WIP's! Part 2 is in the works. Special thanks to @itachan01 on Tumblr for brainstorming ideas with me! Feedback/suggestions are welcome, as always. No beta.

It’s nearing midnight. Vik leans back in his chair with a sigh, pulling off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. _Buncha amateurs._ The mangled remains of a mantis blade setup litter his desk, bits of chrome and wire protruding from the appendage at ungodly angles. He’s spent the better part of the last four hours trying to fix the hack job of a “repair” the other ripper attempted on the poor kid’s arm and has nothing to show for it but a growing headache. “Idiots. Shoulda just left the damn thing attached,” he mutters to himself, sliding his glasses back onto his nose and returning to work. 

A few minutes later, Vik hears the swish of the outer door opening, followed by footsteps, too heavy to be V or Misty’s. Who the hell’s showin’ up at this hour? He turns to see the silhouette of a man in a long coat behind the metal gate, fidgeting restlessly. 

“Help ya with somethin’?,” Vik calls out as he stands, hands reflexively balling into fists at his side.

“Heya, Viky. Been a while.” Wait. He knows that voice, albeit a bit more rough around the edges than he remembers.

“Marty? That you?,” he asks, letting his hands relax and walking over.

“Hah. The one and only. Can I, uh, can I come in?” 

He steps up to the gate and slides it open, moving off to the side to let him in. “Marty, you old dog! It’s been ages! Come on in! Grab ya a beer?”

Marty laughs nervously, his eyes darting around the dimly lit clinic. “No, uh, no thanks, Viky. Listen. I-I need your help.” He holds out his hand, the metal digits cracked and bent at odd angles. Now fully inside, Vik can see the extensive amount of chrome he’s packing, significantly more than the last time they saw each other, and a shiver runs up his spine. _Shit._ The rough voice, the nervous tics, the stuttered speech? Vik knows a borderline psycho when he sees one.

“‘Course! Have a seat and we’ll get you sorted. Just need to grab a few things.” He gestures to his operating chair and gives Marty a smile, trying to keep their interactions lighthearted and friendly. Marty shuffles over and takes a seat as Vik heads over to a cabinet, never turning his back fully. 

“Damn it, where is it? I know I have some…” he mutters under his breath as he pulls various hypos and bottles from the shelves. 

“Ev-everything ok, Viky?,” Marty squeaks from the chair.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. You know how it is. Can’t find shit in my old age.” He turns to give Marty a reassuring grin. “Be with ya in a flash.”

Aha! He lets out a breath as his fingers close over the hypo he was looking for: baloperidol. A large enough dose to hopefully keep the symptoms at bay long enough to help Marty and send him on his way. He’d contact the authorities later.

Gathering the rest of his supplies, he walks back over to the chair and begins arranging the tools and meds on the side table. “You’ve, uh, had a lot of work done since the last time you were in here. Got a new doc?” He grabs a low-dose stim and jabs it into his forearm, taking a deep breath and flexing the fingers of his exo-glove. 

“Had to- had to leave town for a while. Met a guy in Reno. Hooked me up good.”

“Looks like it. Well, just relax and I’ll get you fixed up in no time. Arm here, please.” Vik takes his place along the side of the chair and hoists up the mechanical arm rest. Marty doesn’t move. 

“Something the matter?,” Vik asks, quirking his brow and trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

“Can’t you just… I dunno, fix it yourself?!,” Marty blurts out, eyes wide and unfocused.

Damn it. He’s running out of time. 

“Easy, Marty. Let me see what I can do.” He reaches over to grab the baloperidol. “But I can’t help you until you relax. Here, this’ll help.” He stands and poises the hypo over Marty’s chest. Before he can react, his wrist is crushed in an iron grip.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!,” Marty screams, spit flying from his lips, eyes wild. 

“Whoa! Marty, hey, just a mild downer to help you relax so I can fix your hand. That’s all.”

“LIAR! That’s baloperidol, isn’t it? ISN’T IT?! You think I’m a fucking psycho, don’t you, you-you ‘ganic piece of SHIT! FUCK YOU! I’M NOT FUCKING CRAZY!”

White hot pain blazes through Vik’s body as Marty’s knife pierces his gut. He cries out, slamming a hand to his side and doubling over the chair as the blade is pulled free. Blood seeps between his fingers and his vision blurs as he struggles to stand upright. Marty is pacing around in circles, gesturing wildly with his arms. The knife clatters to the floor. Managing to pull himself onto the operating chair, the last thing Vik hears is the banging of the metal gate and Marty’s voice, echoing into the night. “I TRUSTED YOU, VIKY! I TRUSTED YOU!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn’t quite turn out like I planned, but stories be like that sometimes. I do plan to go back and revise it later, but enjoy for now! Feedback/suggestions are always welcome! No beta.

V flops over onto her back with a huff and slings her arm over her eyes. Another restless night. Reaching over to grab her phone, she lifts her arm and squints at the screen. 0010. _Son of a bitch._ This is the third time in the last hour she’s woken up, her mind too full of… everything. Resigning herself to the fact that she won’t be falling back to sleep any time soon, she rolls out of bed with a groan and pads barefoot over to her closet. 

“Might as well see what’s keepin’ the rest of Night City awake,” she mutters, pulling on her favorite pair of jeans and an old tank. She slips on her leather boots and grabs a plaid flannel shirt from a hanger, pulling it on as she heads for the door with a sigh.

V steps out of her apartment complex and instinctively heads west toward Bradbury Street. In the distance, she hears the gentle roll of thunder above the noise of the streets. Paying no attention to where she’s headed, her mind wanders as she walks, thoughts ranging from her growing list of opened gigs to whether she remembered to eat today. 

A few minutes later, she’s torn from her reverie as the first drops of rain start to fall. Glaring up at the sky and cursing under her breath, she ducks into the nearest alley and suddenly realizes where she is. She’d subconsciously made her way to Vik’s clinic. She’s immediately comforted by the green neon glow above his door. _Guess he couldn’t sleep, either,_ she thinks with a smile.

She heads down the stairs, her mind already feeling lighter knowing she’ll be in commiserate company. Just before she reaches the gate, she spots a bloody footprint leading away from the clinic. She calls out to him as she rounds the corner, voice echoing feebly off the concrete and when she reaches the metal gate, her stomach drops into her shoes.

“Oh, FUCK. Vik!” V runs to him, heart crashing against her ribs as she takes in the scene in front of her. _Fuck, is this all his?_

Vik is slumped over on the operating chair, right hand pressed to his side as blood seeps between his fingers and pools on the floor. He’s coated in a thin sheen of sweat and his face is too pale, but at least he’s still breathing. She crouches down in front of him and cups her hand under his chin to lift his head.

“Hey, V,” he mumbles with a weak smile, eyes fluttering open to look at her.

“Jesus Christ, Vik! What the fuck happened to you?,” she asks, desperately trying to keep her voice from cracking. She reaches for his hand to pull it from his side, but he resists, letting out a pained grunt. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, move your hand so I can see!”

He shakes his head and chuckles, face scrunching into a grimace at the movement. “Heh. Just a scratch. Asshole sure caught me off guard, though.” He huffs out a breath. “‘Sides, I’m the doctor here.” He winks at her before dropping his head again, a fresh gush of blood pouring out over his hand.

“Yeah, a fucking doctor who was gonna, what, let ‘imself bleed out all over the goddamn floor? Why the hell didn’t you call me?! Or Misty?! Or fucking Trauma, for that matter?!” She leaps to her feet, letting out a frustrated yell, hurt and anger and fear bubbling to the surface. 

“Told ya. S’not that bad. I’m — fine.”

Her optics flash in warning as she scans him. “ _S’not that bad_ ,” she mocks as she rolls her eyes. “Says the man who’s blood pressure is in the fucking toilet. You may be the doctor here, but I’m not about to stand here and watch you take one for the fucking team. I know what I’m doing. Trust me.” 

She pushes him back against the chair a little more roughly than she truly intends to and grabs his hand again, pleading at him with her eyes. _Let me help you._

“So, you wanna be my nurse, huh?” He waggles his eyebrows at her, but the gesture falls short as he finally pulls his hand away with a wince.

She laughs as she reaches over him to grab some scissors, gauze and betadine from the side table. “Dunno about a nurse, but I spent the last two years hangin’ with Atlanta’s best medics. Picked up a few tricks from ‘em that I’m sure’ll come in real handy about now. Also, sorry about your shirt.”  
Before he can say anything, she grabs his lapels and yanks her hands apart, sending buttons flying before grabbing the scissors and cutting through his undershirt. 

“Hey - !”

“Thought you were the doctor here? Just part of the job, right?” She gives him a wink and sets to work cleaning around the wound to get a better idea of what she’s working with. The puncture is deep, but clean and still bleeding heavily. “Hmm. Well-approximated. Clean edges. Must not have been a serrated blade. Should be easy enough to suture,” she says mostly to herself before glancing up at him. She feels her cheeks heat up when she catches him staring at her.

“Your, uh, pressure’s still shit though. Lost quite a bit of blood. Gonna at least need at least a liter or two of fluid to compensate.” She grabs the gauze and presses it to his side to try and staunch some of the bleeding, flinching when he sucks in a sharp breath.

“Huh. Guess those guys did teach you well.” He covers her hand with his and her stomach flips at the contact. “Suture and IV kits are in the drawer next to the desk, and - you should find some LR in one of the cabinets on the back wall.” She nods and pulls her hand away with a small smile. “Thanks. Hold that for me, ya? Be right back.”

She finds what she needs easily enough and begins arranging her supplies on the side table, peeling open the IV kit. 

“Fifty eddies says you can’t hit it first stick.”

She gives him a look, but says nothing as she applies the tourniquet and cleans his arm with alcohol . 10 seconds later, she’s taping down a perfect 16g IV in his forearm and hooking him up to a liter of Lactated Ringers, sliding the clamp down to let it run wide open. 

He huffs out a laugh. “Well, color me impressed. Now, let’s see if you can suture half as well as you started that IV,” he says with a wink.

Her face flushes at the praise. “Keep eggin’ me on like that and I’ll stitch up more than your wound, old man,” she says without bite, leveling her best glare at him as she fights back a smile. She nudges his hand aside to remove the saturated gauze and grabs the suture kit and local anesthetic from the table. Scanning vitals again, she’s pleased to see his blood pressure and heart rate improving. 

She injects the anesthesia and sets to work suturing his wound, letting herself fall back on muscle memory. “So, you never did tell me what the hell happened,” she says, glancing up at him.

“Heh. Old client of mine stopped by for some late night ripper work and went psycho. Tried to get some baloperidol in him, but I guess he figured stabbin’ me was the way to go before runnin’ off.”

She pauses, taking in a deep breath and shaking her head. “Holy fuck, Vik! You’re lucky all he did was stab you once! He could have… you - you could have fucking died before I even got here!” Her voice finally cracks under the sudden onslaught of emotion and she throws her head back, blinking away the hot tears springing up in her eyes. 

“Yeah, but I didn’t. And for what it’s worth, V, I’m damn glad you’re here. I owe ya one.”

She laughs through a sniffle and gets back to suturing. “Please, Vik. After all the times you’ve patched me up, this is the least I can do.” She finishes the last stitch and ties the knot, stepping back to admire her handiwork. Vik pushes himself up on his elbows and looks down, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Not bad. A little crooked, but it’ll do.” She shoves his shoulder playfully and leans down to remove his IV before walking over to wet a cloth in the sink. “Asshole. And besides, it’s a helluva lot better than you woulda done,” she calls over her shoulder. Turning back, she finds him sitting on the edge of the chair, legs dangling over the edge. She walks over and grabs his chin, gently wiping the sweat from his face. “Don’t you do that to me again, Viktor Vektor, you hear me?” Her eyes are stormy as she stares him down. He stands up gingerly and pulls her into a left-sided hug. “Huh. Now you know how I feel.”


End file.
